That night, the lamplight flickered like a lone bean in the darkness.
Yunxiu loosely tied up her long hair and draped a warm outer robe over her shoulders. Picking up the thick stack of papers beside her, she glanced at them, her lips twitching slightly as if she were seeing her son for the first time.
The desk was neatly arranged with letter paper. Dipping her brush into ink, she slowly began writing, the words "Your humble consort" flowing effortlessly onto the page.
Yet when she tried to continue, her hand abruptly stilled. The final stroke stretched long and hesitant before she finally set the brush down, leaning back with a quiet sigh as her gaze drifted toward the candlelight, lost in thought.
The Emperor had been away at war for a month now.
Though replies from the frontier never ceased—each delivered to the inner palace via the Crown Prince—her own writing had gone from smooth and effortless to halting and uncertain, despite Yintang’s carefully crafted phrases.
Yunxiu was neither skilled in embroidery nor in letter-writing. She had never been a woman of literary talent. In her youth, she had excelled in archery and horsemanship, but after so many years in the palace, even those skills had faded from memory.
She feared her words would come across as dry and lifeless, that no matter how hard she racked her brain to weave them together, the sincerity she wished to convey would remain hidden. If the Emperor saw through her forced efforts, all her years of careful planning would be for naught.
So she told Yintang, "Your mother needs the letter to flow with natural, heartfelt words." After a pause, she added, "Sweet nothings would do as well."
The young prince had blinked in confusion, muttering under his breath, "As if I didn’t already know—Mother’s already deep in it. Why would she need me to write for her?" His tone had been unmistakably sour.
At the time, she had laughed it off, thinking even Yintang had been fooled.
An emperor’s favor could never last. Only power and status were eternal truths. She wasn’t one to chase after influence, content instead to aim for the position of Imperial Noble Consort, hoping only to navigate the palace’s treacherous waters and live out her days in peace.
This was her third attempt at writing the letter. Her wrist trembled slightly—perhaps it was the stillness of the night, or the way spring thunder stirred the tender grass, how storms could never fully suppress the hidden vitality beneath. For once, a rare wistfulness flickered in her eyes.
Sincerity.
After wearing a mask for so many years, she could no longer tell what was real and what was feigned.
Some days ago, she had considered preparing the Emperor’s belongings for his journey. The thought had lasted only a moment before she dismissed it. Whether it was intentional avoidance, she couldn’t say.
Yet in the end, he had still taken quite a few of her treasures with him.
After a long silence, she called softly, "Ruizhu, fetch me an empty wooden box—a spacious one."
Ruizhu murmured an acknowledgment and soon returned with a jewelry case. Watching as her mistress neatly folded the stack of letters and placed them inside, she remained silent.
Yunxiu closed the lid, her face softening in the candlelight. "I’ll keep these safe for Yintang. One day, I’ll hand them all over to his future wife."
With that, she set the box aside, crumpled the discarded draft, and smoothed out a fresh sheet of paper.
The piercing longing that had filled her first two letters was absent this time.
After briefly inquiring after the Emperor’s health, she paused, her expression serene, before continuing without hesitation:
"The capital was drenched in rain today. I rose late. Breakfast was as hearty as ever, and afterward, I lounged on the daybed, listening to someone read from a novel—though the story was rather uninspired."
"Grand Imperial Physician Chen took my pulse and assured me all was well. Once the ground dries, he suggested I take walks to clear my mind. Fulu is away, and though Yinqi doesn’t say it aloud, I know he misses him. Even after winning top marks in archery, he showed no trace of pride."
"The Crown Prince is kept busy, but Jingchu often visits to chat. The Eldest Princess Consort joins us as well—the two sisters-in-law get along splendidly. Little Eleventh whined to me today, insisting his meals must never include chili peppers again, not even bell peppers. His pout was so exaggerated, one could’ve hung an oil bottle from it."
"Yintang’s literary skills have improved greatly—"
Here, Yunxiu’s lips curved into a smile as she added, "Your Majesty might consider testing him upon your return. He’s memorized every love poem in existence. If only he applied such diligence to his studies, what couldn’t he achieve?"
Beyond the Great Wall, banners snapped in the howling western wind, whipping up clouds of dust. The military camp sprawled around the imperial tent like stars encircling the moon.
Kangxi set down the letter, pinching the bridge of his nose as a fleeting tenderness crossed his face. The warmth in his eyes vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by deep creases between his brows.
Lately, his appetite had waned inexplicably. The imperial physicians found nothing amiss, yet occasional flashes of pain darted through his limbs. He dismissed them as mere fatigue, paying them no mind.
"How is Yin Zhi’s injury?" Carefully tucking away the letter, the memory of the bloodied scene resurfaced. Kangxi frowned at Liang Jiugong, who stood waiting nearby. "What did the physicians say? Will it scar?"
Liang Jiugong exhaled inwardly before replying cautiously, "Your Majesty, the Third Prince’s arrow wound isn’t deep. With time, it will heal. But since it grazed his face... the physicians say the skin around the eyes is delicate. There may be... may be..."
He pressed his thumb and forefinger to the outer corner of his right eye, indicating a mark the size of a peanut. "A faint scar of this length."
Stealing a glance at the Emperor’s expression, he added hastily, "Though small, it will remain visible."
Kangxi’s tension dissolved instantly. He kicked Liang Jiugong lightly. "You dog of a servant, frightening me over nothing! A scar like that won’t stop him from finding a wife!"
Liang Jiugong hurriedly bowed. "This servant wouldn’t dare, wouldn’t dare!"
Truthfully, he’d only feared His Majesty might take the injury as a slight to imperial dignity—after all, harming a prince was tantamount to insulting the Emperor himself. Those rebels had truly overstepped!
Seeing the Emperor’s frown ease somewhat, Liang Jiugong relaxed.
Yet recalling the chaos after the Third Prince’s injury, his heart still pounded. Swallowing hard, he continued, "When this servant delivered medicine earlier, the Third Prince still clung to Young Master Fulu—" as though he were a lifeline.
The incident had been nothing short of horrifying.
The Third Prince was fourteen, Fulu merely twelve. The Emperor would never have allowed them near the front lines, so he’d assigned them to the right flank under Prince Yu’s command, where they were meant to hold defensive positions, far from enemy engagement.
Yet by cruel chance, while camped by a river in what should’ve been secure territory—scouted and cleared by vanguard troops at dawn—they’d stumbled upon an ambush. The rebels had immediately recognized the Third Prince’s distinctive armor and the guards swarming around him, shouting to capture the Qing prince alive. Their sudden counterattack had left everyone scrambling.
Blades and arrows had all been aimed at the Third Prince. A hail of projectiles felled his guards before they could react. Had Fulu not thrown himself into the fray—
Liang Jiugong shuddered, unwilling to dwell on what might’ve been.
He sighed inwardly. This time, Young Master Fulu had truly distinguished himself. His natural strength and courage were undeniable—despite minor wounds on his arms and legs, he remained spirited, showing no sign of pain.
Earlier, when Liang Jiugong had arrived with the Emperor’s medicinal gifts, Fulu had been keeping vigil by the Third Prince’s bedside. Grinning, he’d remarked, "This must be Auntie’s doing. It’s the Guo’erluo family’s secret recipe."
The boy’s bright eyes and cheerful tone made him impossible not to adore.
Liang Jiugong recounted everything he had seen and heard in detail. Upon hearing this, Kangxi's face visibly softened with emotion.
"What a good child," he said in a deep voice. "Yin Zhi can never thank him enough."
If not for Fulu, the Third Prince would have nearly been lost. The thought sent a chill down Kangxi's spine. His phoenix-like eyes flickered with a trace of fury as he slammed his palm on the desk and declared angrily, "I will not rest until the Dzungars are destroyed!"
"Pass down my orders—" Perhaps his rage was too overwhelming, for as he spoke, Kangxi staggered suddenly, his limbs going weak, and a sharp pain surged through his head.
The pain was so intense that it robbed him of his strength to stand. He collapsed backward, rigid as a board.
Liang Jiugong, who had been listening with bowed head, looked up at the commotion and nearly lost his soul in fright. "Your Majesty! Your Majesty!"
Prince Yu and the Eldest Prince, who were fighting on the front lines, received the news in haste. After urgently instructing their generals, they raced back to the central camp on swift horses.
The imperial tent was eerily silent, as if everyone was bracing for disaster. When Kangxi slowly regained consciousness, he saw Imperial Physician An seated by his bedside, carefully taking his pulse, his brows alternately relaxing and furrowing. The attendants held their breaths, watching intently.
"What illness afflicts me?" Kangxi asked hoarsely, his headache suddenly gone but his limbs weak and cold. He closed his eyes briefly. "Is it a fever?"
The pulse Imperial Physician An detected matched the symptoms of a fever perfectly. Yet he hesitated to confirm, as the condition was still in its early stages, and unforeseen complications could arise.
Just as Imperial Physician An was about to speak, Imperial Physician Yang, kneeling behind him, clasped his hands and said, "Your Majesty, when I took your pulse earlier, it indeed indicated a fever."
Imperial Physician Yang was much younger than Imperial Physician An, but his medical skills were on par. Seeing that Imperial Physician An merely paused without refuting, everyone was convinced.
The Eldest Prince spoke with the most urgency, "In that case, I implore both physicians to prepare medicine for His Majesty at once. The imperial health must not be delayed!"
"Yes, yes."
The imperial tent erupted into a flurry of activity. After Kangxi took the bitter medicine, beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and he soon fell into a deep sleep. Imperial Physician Yang let out a long sigh of relief and whispered to Liang Jiugong, who wore a worried expression, "His Majesty will recover by tomorrow. Please set your heart at ease, honored eunuch."
Yet that very night, the emperor's condition suddenly worsened.
His forehead burned with fever, his hands and feet turned icy cold, and he even coughed up a mouthful of blood.
Imperial Physician Yang, who had kept vigil by his side all night, turned deathly pale. His mind went blank, leaving only two blood-red words echoing in his thoughts:
It's over.
